ucie, glad to escape, returned, with Stanhope, to the
house.

CHAPTER IX.

Untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late!
Yet I am chang'd; though still enough the same
In strength, to bear what time cannot abate,
And feed on bitter fruits, without accusing fate.

LORD BYRON.

Father Gilbert stopped a few paces from the spot which Lucie had just
quitted, and, leaning against a tree, appeared so entirely absorbed by
his own reflections, that De Valette for some moments hesitated to
address him. The rapid mutations of his countenance still betrayed a
powerful mental struggle; and De Valette felt his curiosity and interest
strongly awakened, by the sudden and uncontrollable excitement of one,
whose usually cold and abstracted air, shewed little sympathy with the
concerns of humanity. Gradually, however, his features resumed their
accustomed calmness; but, on raising his eyes, and meeting the inquiring
gaze of De Valette, he drooped his head, as if ashamed to have betrayed
emotions, so inconsistent with the vow which professed to raise him
above the influence of all worldly passions.

"I fear you are ill, father," said De Valette, approaching him with
kindness; "can I do anything to assist or relieve you?"

"I _was_ ill, my son," he replied; "but it is over now--passed away like
a troubled phantasy, which visits the weary and restless slumberer, and
flies at the approach of returning reason."

"Your language is figurative," returned De Valette, "and implies the
sufferance of mental, rather than bodily pain. If such is your unhappy
state, I know full well that human skill is unavailing."

"What know _you_ of pain?" asked the priest, with startling energy;
"_you_, who bask in the sunshine of fortune's smile,--whose days are one
ceaseless round of careless gaiety,--whose repose is yet unbroken by the
gnawing worm of never-dying repentance! Such, too, I was, in the
spring-time of my life; I drained the cup of pleasure,--but misery and
disappointment were in its dregs; I yielded to the follies and passions
of my youthful heart,--and the sting of remorse and ceaseless regret
have entered my inmost soul!"

"Pardon me, father," said De Valette, "if I have unconsciously awakened
thoughts which time, perchance, had well nigh soothed into
forgetfulness!"

"Awakened thoughts!" the priest repeated, in a melancholy voice; "they
can never, never sle